


too many war wounds

by kathillards



Category: Kamen Rider Gaim
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M, PTSD, Post-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-13
Updated: 2017-06-13
Packaged: 2018-11-13 16:09:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,122
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11188662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kathillards/pseuds/kathillards
Summary: Maybe saving the world wasn’t the victory after all. Maybe it was learning to live again.





	too many war wounds

**Author's Note:**

> thought i was over these two but it seems i am not happy unless one of my boys is suffering so here is kouta, doing exactly that. au where he and mai got to stay on earth cuz that was kinda bullshit. i don't have any explanation for it, i'm just here to write the kissing scenes.

**too many war wounds  
** **(and not enough wars)**

 

 

His hands shake more often than not.

Post-traumatic stress disorder, his sister says. Like maybe saving the world wasn’t as much of a victory as it seemed to be. Like maybe some people just aren’t built for peace, not anymore. Not the way he used to be. Kouta wakes up screaming and can’t remember a time before everything he held turned to swords in his mind’s eye.

 

 

Mai is better at it. She remembers how to dance.

Of course, she’s always been better than him. Better than any of them. The girl who turned back time to save the boys she loved from themselves, from each other. Could he have done it? Could anyone but her?

Kouta doesn’t know the answer to that. He watches her dance and manage a feeble imitation of the smile he used to have.

Dancing, she tells him, is the only time she still feels alive.

 

 

And that’s the worst part, isn’t it? Coming out alive and not remembering how to live. Coming out alive and feeling like you should have been dead.

He held the fruit of life in the palm of his hand and all it gave him was this itching, burning sensation under his skin, like he’s never going to be that person again. The boy who saved the world. The man who killed his friend. The god who gave up immortality.

If this is Helheim’s last revenge, it’s a damn good one.

 

 

Kaito’s funeral is quiet. The sky is blood-red that evening, like even it is mourning for the life he could have had, if his veins hadn’t turned to vines and his heart to stone.

Zack tears up giving his speech. At his side, Mai is crying without really being aware of it. Kouta supposes maybe he is, too.

Micchy isn’t there. He hadn’t expected him to be.

His brother is, though. A tall, shadowy presence hovering at the edge of the crowd, like he doesn’t quite fit in and is too awkward to ask for a place among the rest of them – dancers and riders who had loved Kaito Kumon, even when he’d betrayed them all.

Kouta ends up at his side without planning it.

“My condolences,” Takatora says. His voice is heavy with something different from grief – regret, maybe. “I know you and Kaito were close.”

 _Close_ is the wrong word for it, he thinks. The two of them were so entwined in each other’s lives, it was hard to see straight, sometimes. Things like friendship and enmity are meaningless in the face of a fate like that. Things like love and hate don’t matter when one of you has to kill the other, or die trying.

“How’s Micchy?”

Takatora takes the subject switch in stride, steps falling in line with his as they drift further and further away from the funeral. Briefly, he worries about Mai – but she will be fine. She knows how to be fine better than he does.

“He’s getting better, I think,” Takatora tells him. “He speaks to me around the house. Goes to school. I know he hasn’t been talking to you, but – ”

“It’s okay.” And maybe it is, or it will be, someday. “I didn’t expect him to. Just tell him we miss him, yeah?”

Takatora levels a surprised look at him. “After everything he did?”

Kouta takes a breath. “If I don’t start with forgiving others,” he says softly, “how can I ever forgive myself?”

Takatora doesn’t say anything to that. Their footsteps and the distant sounds of the reception are the only things that fill the silence in the moments that pass.

Finally, Takatora says, “I don’t think you’ve done anything that requires forgiving.”

Kouta stares at him. Takatora meets his gaze evenly, unflinching. The weight of his words is so startling, he feels as though he might collapse beneath them, from all that they imply. He doesn’t know how to be someone who’s forgiven, anymore. Only knows how to be someone searching for forgiveness.

“I killed him,” he says. “I drove my sword through his heart.”

“You saved the world,” Takatora says. His feet stop just a few inches ahead of Kouta, and he finds himself staring at Takatora’s silhouette against the dripping sunset, the angles of his jawline, the cut of his shoulders, the way he holds himself. Not high, like he used to – not as a king, but as a veteran. Someone who’s survived the end of the world.

Kouta wonders if he looks like that, or if he looks as small and scared as he feels on the inside.

“I couldn’t save him.”

Takatora’s lips quirk in the ghost of a smile. “You can’t save everyone, Kouta. The fact that you tried is admirable enough.”

Kouta shakes his head. “I’m not looking for admiration. People treat me like a savior – they should treat me like a murderer.”

“I often find,” Takatora says, slow and careful, “that to the rest of the world, there is really no difference between hero and villain. And you can’t control how people think of you. The only thing you can change is how you think of yourself.”

It’s not enough, Kouta tries to say, but the words die on his tongue and Takatora is already walking away.

 

 

He deals with the nightmares by not sleeping. Zawame City at night is still a post-apocalyptic landscape, but one that offers some sense of familiarity. People are slowly trickling back inside, though nobody dares venture out too late into the evening, as if they’re still afraid the monsters will return.

The vines have been eradicated by Yggdrasil. Kouta still doesn’t know whether to thank them or resent them.

Micchy sends him a text one night.

All it says is: _I’m sorry._

Kouta stares down at his phone. It takes him ten minutes to remember to reply.

_Me too._

 

 

The garage has turned into a hub for the dancers to sleep. They practice their moves in Baron’s old hangout – the show must go on, as Zack says with a smile that never quite reaches his eyes. In the Gaim hangout, all they do is try to rest. There’s a small memorial of pictures and toys building to those they lost in the battle in one corner.

Mai says the garage is an anchor, a place to remember who she is, where she belongs.

Every time Kouta steps foot in it, he feels more lost at sea than ever.

How do you do it? he asks her without asking, the words existing only in the touch of their bodies as she lies there, curled into his side, neither of them able to sleep. How do you go back to the person you were?

They haven’t needed words to talk, not since she gave him the fruit. Not since they destroyed it together.

I don’t think we can, she traces over his palm. I don’t think we ever will. All we can do is move forward to the person we want to be.

 

 

He doesn’t know the person he wants to be. At one point, he thought he would be a hero, and then he killed Kaito Kumon. And then he gave up godhood. And then he came back to a fractured city, trying to rebuild itself around him.

Sleeping next to Mai doesn’t help the way it should. He looks around the garage and sees – Zack, Peco, Rat, Rica – others he recognizes from Raid Wild and Invitto, scattered around the floor. He’s never felt so alone amongst these people that he loves.

He ends up at the bay, leaning over the fence to watch the way the water glitters under the moonlight. Zawame is so pretty, when it wants to be. When he forgets that it’s full of shadows and ghosts. When it forgets that it was once overrun with monsters.

Takatora finds him there. “Can’t sleep?” he asks without expecting an answer.

Kouta says, “I miss him.”

“You’re allowed to miss him.”

“I’m not,” he says, and manages half a laugh without a trace of humor. “You didn’t know him. He would hate me for moping around like this. Being weak.”

There’s a pause, where it seems like Takatora doesn’t know quite what to say, and Kouta turns to face him.

“You don’t always have to try and comfort me, you know,” he says. “I’m sure you have better things to do.”

“Perhaps I enjoy your company,” Takatora suggests.

Kouta pauses, looks at him, trying to figure this out. Takatora’s gaze remains on the water beyond them. For the space of a heartbeat, they are at a standstill.

Then, he blurts out, “Micchy texted me the other day,” for lack of any adequate other reply.

“Did he?” Takatora glances at him sidelong. “I’m glad.”

“How are you doing?” Kouta asks. “You and him.”

“We are managing,” Takatora says. “I suppose that’s more than many can say.”

“I suppose it is,” Kouta agrees.

Takatora pauses, then says, softly, “It’s a big house. There’s a lot of memories. Most of them aren’t good. I try to – get out, whenever I can. I think he does, too, but I have no idea where he goes. To school or to – to your dance shows, I suppose. I wish he would tell me.”

Kouta stares at him in surprise. It’s been a long time since someone has burdened their problems onto him; everyone else is so careful, so used to walking on eggshells around him. It’s almost a relief, to look at the question on Takatora’s face and try to find an answer that has nothing to do with himself.

“If he comes to the dance shows, he’s never in the audience,” he offers. “I feel like he must watch from the distance. And… maybe he can’t face you yet.”

Takatora’s gaze cuts to him, sharp and discerning. “Why would that be?”

“Because he killed you,” Kouta says, then stops. “Oh.”

Takatora steps towards him and presses a hand to his arm, half in comfort, half to keep him steady. “I’ve forgiven him. And Kaito would have forgiven you.”

Kouta swallows, staring down at the ground between them, the miniscule space between their bodies. “You know,” he says, weakly, trying to be teasing, “I actually thought you had problems for me to help.”

“If you want problems, come to Yggdrasil,” Takatora says. “You can try to fix those instead. I’ve found it helps, somewhat. At least with the guilt.”

“Maybe.” Kouta can’t shake the irony of the offer. “I’ll consider it.”

Takatora’s hand lingers a moment longer before he pulls back to leave. This time, Kouta doesn’t watch him go.

 

 

He doesn’t know how to dance anymore. He thinks maybe he hasn’t for a long time.

Still, he goes to the shows and manages to remember how to smile, sometimes. At Zack, at Mai. At Team Gaim, in their colorful hoodies, working to bring joy back to the people of Zawame. At Baron, with their red coats and code of honor, dancing at the side of the ones they had once disdained.

It's funny how quickly old rivalries give way in the face of something so much greater than them. And funnier still, how they all came back to street dancing in one way or another, because maybe what had started it all was greater than what had happened to them after all.

He catches Micchy’s eye once, and smiles.

Micchy sinks into the shadows, but he doesn’t run away.

Progress, Kouta thinks, is the funniest thing of all.

 

 

His sister informs him one day, quite cheerfully, that she’s meeting Takatora Kureshima for lunch at Charmant.

Kouta blinks at her. “On a date?”

Akira rolls her eyes and passes a hand over his hair fondly. “Don’t be silly. He’s my boss, remember? It’s about work. But if you want to come, I’m sure he wouldn’t mind.”

“Right,” he says slowly. The door clicks behind her. He has no idea how she’s never lost her smile, even watching her little brother become a monster before her eyes, but maybe some people are just better equipped for surviving the apocalypse.

He decides not to go.

 

 

He goes anyway. It’s not like he’s getting better, sitting on his bed and trying not to lapse into the nightmares, or the hallucinations. Sometimes, he looks at his hand and it belongs to an Inves. Other times, he looks at his hands, and they’re red with Kaito’s blood.

The fresh air is a welcome distraction. So, too, is Takatora’s face when he looks up and sees him standing just outside the gates of Charmant.

“I didn’t think you’d come,” he admits after excusing himself. Akira smiles at the two of them. Kouta ignores her.

“I wasn’t going to.”

Takatora smiles. “I’m glad you did. Have you considered my offer?”

“I have.” Kouta shoves his hands in his pockets, takes a deep breath. “I don’t want to work for you.”

For a lot of reasons, he adds silently, watching as Takatora’s mouth twists in disappointment. He doesn’t quite know how to explain all of those reasons, though.

“Understood,” Takatora says quietly.

“I do… want to help the city,” Kouta continues. “The dance shows need an organizer. All of the dancers have been involved in clean-up. I think they deserve to be paid for their work.”

“That they do,” Takatora agrees, looking at him carefully. “So what do you suggest?”

“A liaison,” Kouta says, stopping and turning to face him. “Between Yggdrasil and the dancers. To negotiate payment, setting up with the venues, sponsorships, organizing them to help the neighborhoods that still need it. Things like that.”

“I’m sure we can manage that,” Takatora says. “Can I ask… why not Yggdrasil proper? I know it probably holds bad memories, but – ”

“It’s not that,” Kouta admits, feeling a flush crawl its way up his neck. It might be the first normal, human reaction he’s had in the weeks since the battle. “I like you. I just don’t think… the whole boss-and-employee relationship would work for us.”

Takatora looks at him, considering. “You’re probably right,” he admits after a moment. Kouta glances at him again and finds him almost smiling. “By the way – Micchy said he’d be home tonight. Around nine, if you want to – come by. Talk to him.”

Kouta nods slowly. “I’ll bring Mai.”

 

 

He and Micchy don’t talk, really. Maybe they’ve said all there is to be said, or maybe they just don’t need to anymore.

All Micchy says is, “I can’t go back – but I’m trying. To be better.”

“We’ll be there,” Kouta promises him. “When you are.”

Mai glances at him. He gets the hint, leaves them alone in Micchy’s room. Whatever is between the two of them, it’s one thing he can’t share with Mai. He hates it, a little, too used to knowing everything about how she’s feeling, but he won’t begrudge her this. Not after Kaito.

Besides, there are things he has that she can't share, too.

He finds Takatora in his study. The door is ajar, and Kouta figures if he hadn’t wanted company, he would have locked it.

“How’d it go?” Takatora asks, turning around in his chair when Kouta enters. He looks less tired than usual, Kouta thinks. Maybe things really are turning around at Yggdrasil.

“Good, I think.” Kouta sits down on the couch in the corner and watches as Takatora rises to join him. “I don’t know about him and Mai, though. Everything he did, he did for her. She hates that.”

“She should hate it,” Takatora says, sitting down at his side. “I know I said I forgive him, but I don’t expect you two to do so as well.”

Kouta shrugs. “We have to, if we want to move on. Otherwise, Helheim will always have its grasp on us. We’ll never really be free if we keep holding onto all the ways we hurt each other.”

Takatora glances away. “I’ve been… trying to make amends,” he says quietly. He looks like he’s been carrying this around for a while. His shoulders slump, heavy with the weight. “On behalf of Yggdrasil – and myself. For everyone we hurt.”

“For what it’s worth,” Kouta says, pressing a hand to Takatora’s knee to get him to look back, “I forgive you.”

“I…” Takatora stares down at where he’s touching him, his body going still under Kouta’s hand. “I appreciate that.”

“Good.” Kouta doesn’t move his hand away immediately. “You should come to the dance shows, you know? See what it is we were fighting for.”

“I wasn’t sure I’d be welcome,” Takatora admits.

“Don’t be stupid. Everyone’s welcome.”

Takatora looks at him with a slow-dawning smile, and for the first time in a long time, Kouta feels his heart lighten. He’s moving over before he knows it, and Takatora doesn’t stop him at all when Kouta’s lips press onto his in a blazingly warm kiss.

“I,” he pauses, pulling back to search Takatora’s face, “I’m sor—”

Takatora slides his hand around Kouta’s neck and pulls him back in for another kiss before he can finish the sentence. This one is easier, less hesitant, seeking more. When they break apart, Kouta can see the light flush on Takatora’s cheeks easier, can count his eyelashes every time he blinks. It’s strange, to be this close to someone who’s not Mai, but better, in some ways. In a lot of ways. He’s missed this sort of connection.

“I think,” Takatora says quietly, and traces his thumb down Kouta’s cheek, “that we both need to learn to stop apologizing.”

Kouta lets out a laugh, and presses forward, barely even caring that the door is still slightly open, that Mai and Micchy are still somewhere in the house. The city outside the window is still finding its beating heart again, and so is he. He kisses Takatora and then kisses him again, and again, and again, and lets himself be knocked breathless by the force of it. By the warmth of it, by the way it feels right in a world that has felt so wrong for so many days.

 

 

His hands still shake more often than not, but he’s getting better.

That counts for something, he thinks. That might count for everything. He closes his eyes at night and sometimes, he sees Kaito smiling instead of dying. Sometimes, he sees Zawame in the daylight full of dancers, and not in the nighttime full of monsters.

Sometimes, he even sees himself, with human hands and a human heart. Himself the way he wants to be. The person he’s trying to be.

Maybe saving the world wasn’t the victory after all. Maybe it was learning to live again.


End file.
